


parapraxis

by pasdexcuses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bets & Wagers, M/M, Pining, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malfoy would never admit it, yet losing the Remembrall was a blessing in disguise. Or maybe a curse. But that was not the point here. The point was, the Snitch didn’t get involved until third year. Before, there was the Remembrall.</p><p><b>OR</b> the <i>Love Me if You Dare</i> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	parapraxis

**Author's Note:**

> This submission is part of HD Smoochfest on Livejournal. The theme this year is Media Remix, which invited participants to "remix" the story from a Book, Movie, or Television Show. The author/artist will be revealed at the end of the fest.
> 
> This was created for Prompt Number: M65  
> Original Work Name: Jeux d’enfants (Love Me if You Dare)
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to my betas for sticking with me and giving me such great ideas aside from their fantastic advise on everything. To my OP, I know this isn’t exactly the fic you asked for, but I still hope you like what I came up with. I haven’t had this much fun writing in a long time, so thank you for the fabulous prompt :)
> 
> I also wrote it as part of my trope bingo, for the square "bets/wagers"

Seeing Malfoy is a fresh reminder that what just happened was not a dream. Malfoy, with his gnawed fingernails, torn robes and scratches all over, his cheeks still grey from the smoke. Harry doesn’t think he himself looks much better. 

“Your wand,” he says, offering up Malfoy’s 10-inch, Hawthorn wood and unicorn hair core wand. “Sorry, I couldn’t give it back before, I guess.”

Malfoy glares at him but takes his wand. Giving it a flick, he scowls and raises his eyebrows at Harry. “Anything else?”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know why, but a part of him is reluctant to leave the conversation at that. Yet… “No. I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”

Harry has already turned and walked a few steps before he hears his name. Turning, he sees Malfoy walking up to him and reaching for something around his neck. Hanging from a chain, _the_ Snitch emerges from the torn robes. 

Malfoy throws it a his face, saying, “That’s a dare, Potter.” 

Harry manages to catch the Snitch before it hits his nose. It’s theirs alright; the marks he embedded in third year are still there. Despite himself, Harry smiles. But when he looks up to say something back, Malfoy is already gone.

——————————

_The_ Snitch was only involved in third year. And that was only because Neville’s Remembrall accidentally fell out of Harry’s pocket while he was trying to change into his pyjamas. Needless to say, the object had to be returned to its rightful owner — who would then proceed to lose it a week after, under rather questionable circumstances. Hermione’d been gleeful over the whole incident; she’d always frowned at the Remembrall like it contained all the evil in the world and then some. Harry, however, had dreaded trying to explain to Malfoy why they couldn’t use it anymore. He’d been rightly worried. Neither party would ever be able to forget the epic proportions of Malfoy's hissy fit; Harry had had to take two dares in a row to make up for the sudden loss of their amulet. The first one, Harry thought was easy and below their standards — as if he’d never stolen anything from a teacher before, please — but then, two days later, he’d nearly lost a hand trying to steal food from Crookshanks. 

Malfoy would never admit it, yet losing the Remembrall was a blessing in disguise. Or maybe a curse. 

But that was not the point here. The point was, _the_ Snitch didn’t get involved until third year. Before, there was the Remembrall. 

 

“Don’t you think this is a bit silly?” Hermione asked, trying to catch up to Harry.

Harry, who was all but power-walking through the halls, did not pay her any mind. He was clutching the Remembrall in his pocket. The thoughts it inspired were more than enough to keep him straight on his course and ignore every word of warning Hermione gave.

“Shut up, Hermione,” Ron said, walking fast enough to be somewhat out of breath. “You need to show him, Harry.”

Oh, yes, he _was_ going to show Malfoy. He still didn’t know how, but he was sure it would come to him once he saw Malfoy’s snotty face. _Just you wait_ , Harry kept thinking as he made his way to the dungeons. 

Normally, they were never early for Potions. But today was different. Today, Harry was going to show Malfoy you couldn’t just toy with people like that. He’d been thinking about revenge in Neville’s name for a while. He kept looking at the Remembrall like it held all the answers. But it hadn’t spoken to Harry yet, so he had to come up with something on his own. A punishment befitting the crime. Up until now, his mind had drawn a complete blank. He couldn’t come up with anything nasty enough. Once again, he regretted the fact that no one had adopted him before he was given to the Dursleys. Surely there was some horrible curse to inflict upon Malfoy. 

And then he saw a bouncing blond head. The idea of a perfect retribution came to him, just like that. 

“Oi, Malfoy!” Harry called. 

Malfoy turned around, and as soon as his eyes landed on Harry, his smirk faltered slightly. Harry was already feeling like he’d won. 

“What d’you want, Scarhead?”

Harry took out the Remembrall. He threw it up in the air and caught it again. “I wanted to give this back to you,” he replied. “But then I thought, you made me work for this, shouldn’t you work for it, too?”

“Whatever, I don’t want that piece of crap,” Malfoy said.

He was already turning back when Harry said, “Ooh, scared of a little dare, are we?”

“What?”

“Well, you dared me to get this. I did. Now I get to dare you to do something for me.” Malfoy huffed but said nothing so Harry went on, “How about… I dare you to steal something… in McGonagall’s classroom?”

Harry had to bite his cheeks not to laugh at Malfoy’s face at that very moment. Nobody had ever looked more like a gaping goldfish. He threw the Remembrall up in the air and caught it once more before he stuck out his chin and said, “Are you game?”

Malfoy looked caught between utter rage and fear. But he, too, stuck his chin out and replied, “Consider it done, Potter.”

And so Harry, because it seemed to fit the moment, threw the Remembrall at Malfoy’s face. It was a shame that Malfoy’s reflexes were fast enough to catch it before it hit him square in the nose. 

Harry had no idea what he’d just started. He just thought of how sweet revenge was going to taste when McGonagall caught Malfoy. 

However, Malfoy, much to Harry’s disappointment, never got caught. He grabbed Harry by the elbow outside the Great Hall a week and a half later, handing him a piece of parchment that had McGonagall’s signature at the bottom of it. It looked insignificant enough not to be missed but it was clearly a stolen item. 

Malfoy smirked at Harry before offering back the Remembrall. “Your turn, Potter. Dare you to spill something on Professor Snape during our next class.”

Harry was sure his face right now was an exact copy of Malfoy’s a week and a half ago. But Harry could not, he would not, back out of this. He took the Remembrall from Malfoy’s hand and stalked back to his common room. He was going to lose Gryffindor so many points. 

Later, Hermione told him and Ron that Crabbe and Goyle had made something explode during Transfiguration. 

Their dares in first year hardly escalated beyond stealing from, lying to, and spoiling their teachers’ and Filch’s affairs. Hermione thought it was all very wrong, that they could get injured, or worse, _expelled_. But Ron nearly doubled over with laughter when Malfoy tried to steal Mrs Norris and failed horribly — though, in fairness, he did manage to keep the cat for two whole hours before Filch came for him, threatening the guillotine. 

Ron and Harry got to listen to Malfoy’s sob story about how he’d just been taking a stroll down the halls when he found the cat, and since he knew it was lost, Malfoy merely grabbed her to return her to her owner. Filch didn’t look like he believed a word out of Malfoy’s mouth but the teacher doing the rounds that afternoon was Snape so he didn’t get in trouble at all. 

Still, Harry and Ron had a pretty good laugh mimicking Malfoy’s puppy eyes and quavering voice. Hermione was just not amused. Harry supposed that was okay. He couldn’t understand why anyone would find Malfoy begging Filch for mercy over a cat not funny, but there you go. Harry wouldn’t hold Hermione’s lack of humour against her. If only she would stop warning him of the dangers of dares. Nothing bad had happened. Nothing bad would happen.

——————————

Harry doesn’t mean to complain. He doesn’t mean to be ungrateful or negative, but sometimes, having survived seems like the most difficult part. It would’ve been easy, Harry thinks, to let himself go along with Voldemort. It wouldn’t have hurt and it wouldn’t require half the effort it takes for him to get up some mornings. Harry doesn’t mean to complain, but sometimes he sees Remus and Tonks in Teddy’s face, and he wonders if maybe it should’ve been him instead of them. Harry doesn’t mean to, but…

He stares at his white walls and sighs. He should probably take a shower and… do something. Hermione is always telling him to do something. _It’s been months, Harry_ and _They’re still looking for volunteers at Hogwarts_ and the absolute worst, _Harry, we’re just worried_. Ron isn’t quite so vocal about it, but he’s been dropping hints here and there. Harry should go and see the new products at the store. Harry should pay Mrs Weasley a visit. Harry should at least write to her to say thanks for the constant supply of food. 

He stumbles out of bed, judging by the position of the sun in the sky that it’s well past midday. There’s something rotting in his fridge, so he doesn’t even bother opening it. Instead, he makes a beeline for the phone. He’s sure the fact that the Indian takeaway place already knows his order is a sign of something. 

At his counter, he reads the Muggle paper. He doesn’t get the _Prophet_ delivered because he doesn’t get anything owl-delivered. So he reads the Muggle paper that gets dropped in his letterbox every morning and accumulates there in a pile until either Hermione or his landlord come to his door to hand it to him. If he reads them one day at a time, Harry can almost pretend he’s up to date. The one currently on his counter is from three days ago. He shrugs and flips the front page. 

He’s read the paper from cover to cover twice when he lets in the teenager with his takeaway. The boy, probably only three years younger than him, scrunches his nose when Harry opens the door. He gives Harry a once over, peers over his shoulder and concludes, “Tough break up, mate?”

Harry looks over his shoulder and wonders what made the boy think that. He grunts his answer, pays and shuts the door in the kid’s face. 

Halfway through his butter chicken, it occurs to him that he’s still a teenager, too, technically. That he shouldn’t have felt as old as he did when he stood face to face with the takeaway kid. And yet, he can’t think of himself as a teenager, much less a kid. It seems like it was decades ago that he last thought of himself as something other than an adult failing at life. 

He sits in front of his muted TV, allowing himself to be hypnotised by the images onscreen. He’s in that odd place between awareness and sleep when someone knocks on his door. He presses the heel of his palms to his eyes before dragging his feet to the door. 

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Harry says when he sees Hermione bearing two bags of groceries. 

“I can tell.” She pushes past him, the expression on her face a clear echo of the takeaway kid’s. “Harry, this is just depressing. How can you live like this?”

A voice in his head replies, _you can’t_. He doesn’t answer. 

“Well, I brought things to help you clean up. The Muggle way.” She puts the bags on the counter and starts taking out supplies. As she organises everything neatly on the dirty counter, she adds, “Plus some groceries because Mrs Weasley sent us an owl informing us she that was cutting you off out of love until you get out of this flat.” She stops moving about to look at him. “You need to take a shower. Here.” She hands him soap and a towel and starts pushing him towards the bathroom. 

“You’re not going to cheat, are you?” Harry asks. He doesn’t mean for there to be a desperate edge to his voice but there it is. 

Hermione shakes her head. “Of course not, Harry.”

He nods and goes for the bathroom. Under the shower, he wonders whether Ron will drop by later. He reckons Hermione at least tried to convince him that Muggle-cleaning was not that hard. Then he feels guilty for leaving Hermione out there with all his mess and rushes his shower so he can go and do something about it. 

The shower helps clear his mind and once he’s dressed, he’s ready to attack the growing mould under his kitchen sink. 

“You look nice,” Hermione says.

“Better not tell Ron you said that.”

Hermione chuckles and gives him a pair of gloves and a sponge. “The state of your fridge is disgusting. I think this is going to be worse than that time we tried making Number 12 inhabitable.” Then Hermione’s hands freeze the air as she realizes what she’s just said. “Harry,” she starts.

But Harry shakes his head. “It’s alright. At least there’s no one yelling at us.” He smiles at Hermione, puts the gloves on and gets to work. 

His fridge really is disgusting. 

It’s summer and yet, by the time they’re done with everything, the sun is starting to set. 

“Ron should be getting here in an hour or so,” Hermione says, biting her lip. Harry can tell she’s thinking about whether or not they should clean out his room, too. “Maybe a bit longer,” she adds. “He wanted to ride the tube, which I told him was silly because he’s never done that before and he’ll probably get lost, but then Ginny offered to come with him so I suppose she’ll have more sense than him.”

“Well, er, I can clean this on my own, you don’t have to worry,” Harry says.

“I read in some PT— I read somewhere that cleaning the space where you sleep helps you stay positive and feel productive and—”

At this, Harry chuckles. “Okay. Thank you, Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry. I’d say anytime but I’m hoping not to ever see you live in such filth again.” She gives him a small smile before leading the way. 

In the end, they accumulate four black bags of rubbish between Harry’s room and the rest of the flat. They’re almost done, just a few books to arrange, when Hermione finds something behind a bookshelf. It’s a dusty Snitch that Harry recognizes immediately. 

“Is this…” Hermione’s voice trails off.

“No. I lost that one in the Forbidden Forest.” He takes the Snitch from Hermione to dust it off on his jeans before pocketing it. “No, this is, er, Malfoy’s Snitch?”

“Malfoy’s Snitch?” Hermione parrots.

“Yes, the one for the, er. Dares,” Harry elaborates.

“You still have this?” He can tell she’s holding back the question on why that managed to survive when everything from his Hogwarts trunk to his broom didn’t. 

“Well, he gave it back. After, you know.”

Her face falls for a moment. “Oh,” she says. 

The silence that follows is nothing short of awkward. In the end, it’s Hermione who gets over it first. She sighs. “You know, I never understood why you kept up with those.” Then she smiles, a small, reminiscent curve of her lips. “Though I do wish I’d seen Malfoy eating up Ron’s slugs.”

At this, Harry laughs. He doesn't need a picture to remember Malfoy's grayish face when presented with the bucket of vomited slugs and the Remembrall, but he almost wishes he had one to share with Hermione.

After they’re done with his room, they take the rubbish out and go sit in front of the TV. It’s not long before Ginny and Ron knock on the door, bringing butterbeer and food. 

“For the hard workers,” Ginny clarifies, snapping Ron’s hand away when he goes for the first butterbeer. She smiles up at Harry when she passes him a drink and turns to Hermione to ask, “So, really, how terrible was it?”

“I was expecting worse, actually,” Hermione replies, which is a flat lie. 

So Harry waits for her to take a sip of her butterbeer to say, “I cannot actually believe that.”

Hermione snorts around her drink. “Fine. Harry, you’re a pig. I’m sorry but you just are.”

Ginny is the first to break into laughter and the rest of them follow soon after. 

The following morning, Harry wakes up in the same clothes. He vaguely remembers the other three leaving at some point when the sun was already up and him going to bed without even bothering to get out of his jeans. Rubbing his hands over his face, he walks to the kitchen to prepare his morning tea. While he waits for the water to boil, he puts his hands in his pockets and finds that the Snitch is still there, waiting for him to do something. 

So Harry forgets all about boiling water and breakfast. He digs out pen and paper, writes a quick note before rushing downstairs. He could never forget how to get to Diagon Alley, even if he tried.

——————————

“Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”

Harry watched Malfoy take a few steps closer until he stood next to his father. For a moment, he couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone as scared as Malfoy looked as he examined Harry’s face. 

He knew the exact moment Malfoy recognized him. His eyes widened slightly and he gulped hard. Harry was so close to him he could hear his breathing change. In that instant, all air escaped his lungs. He was afraid to breathe, afraid of anything Malfoy might say. 

But when Malfoy straightened his back, there was this glint in his eyes. This glint that reminded Harry of Malfoy crouched in front of a bucket of vomited slugs, that same determined look on his face. _I don’t need your pity, Potter_ , he’d said. 

Now Harry knew with absolute certainty that Malfoy knew who he was. 

He didn’t have time to plead for his own life. Malfoy had already turned around and walked to the fireplace. He didn’t dare breathe. 

Not until Malfoy said, “I don’t know.”

——————————

The truth is, Harry is rather surprised to see Malfoy sitting exactly where he’d said he’d be. Somehow, he’d figured Malfoy would make a chase out of it. A twisted game. But there he is, reading the paper while sitting by the third window of a “rather questionable pub, I know Muggles struggle without magic but you’d think they would’ve figured out cleaning by now.” Harry doesn’t reckon it’s too bad. It actually smells better than the London pubs Harry usually frequents. 

He straightens his shirt before remembering he’s meeting Malfoy, not the Minister for Magic and attempts to look disheveled again. 

“Hi,” Harry says, eloquently and not at all awkwardly. Malfoy flips a page. “Sorry I’m late, my—” Then he notices that what Malfoy is reading is not the _Prophet_ but an actual Muggle paper in what appears to be German. He has to rub his eyes to make sure he isn’t just hallucinating Malfoy with a Muggle paper in his hands. “You read German?” 

Malfoy shrugs. “Mother loves Paris but Father thinks the city is too… frivolous,” he explains. “He’s not a fan of France, though I’m not sure why. Anyway, he’s always been rather fond of Germany but Mother doesn’t quite share the sentiment. Switzerland has always been the happy comprise for family holidays.”

Harry has never quite heard Malfoy speak so much of his family. It’s hard to picture the Malfoys reaching a happy compromise. In fact, he feels like he needs to be sitting down to take this all in. 

“But that is the Muggle news,” he insists, because somehow, this bears repeating. 

At last, Malfoy puts his paper down. He fixes his eyes on Harry, scrutinising him. He says, “I’ve heard _you_ haven’t been seen much. In our world.”

It’s Harry’s turn to shrug, though he offers no additional information. “I’m gonna get a beer, do you want anything?”

Malfoy smirks at him, replies, “Pear cider.”

“Pear cider?”

“Is there a problem?”

Harry shakes his head and goes for the bar before the conversation can get even more uncomfortable. For him, anyway. As he looks back at Malfoy sitting all loose limbed in his seat, he doesn't think Malfoy is all that apprehensive. He takes a deep breath and takes the time to force himself to relax. 

It doesn’t work. 

He walks back to their table, drinks in hand. He’s thought of what he’d say. Probably nothing even remotely related to what happened a year ago. Although Harry still wants to ask Malfoy why he never ratted him out. But he knows enough not to ask that right off the bat. 

“Have you been here all this time?” Harry asks instead. 

“Not in the pub, no,” Malfoy answers, a sardonic twist on his lips. “Nor in Zurich. Only got here about a month ago.”

“And before?”

“What about you, Potter? Where have you been hiding out?”

“I haven’t been hiding.”

“That’s not what the _Prophet_ says.”

Oh, Harry knows perfectly well what the _Prophet_ says. 

“Thought you were only reading Muggle news, now,” he counters. “At least I didn’t flee the country.”

“I didn’t flee the country, Potter. I’m taking a vacation, I’m sure you’ve heard of those.”

“A year-long vacation, Malfoy?”

“Oh, because you’ve done so much better for yourself. Tell the truth, is this the first time you’ve been out of your flat since you saved the world?”

Harry swallows. It isn’t true. Though, in some ways, it might as well be. “Perhaps this was a mistake,” he says. 

Malfoy eyes him once more like he’s trying to discover all the boring secrets of Harry’s life. And the more Malfoy stares, the more he starts second-guessing himself. There’s a part of him, a ridiculous part of himself, that keeps reminding him of a twelve-year-old Hermione drilling him about this whole thing being a bit silly. 

“Listen, Malfoy,” he starts. “Maybe we should just leave it here. We’re getting too old—”

“Scared of a little game? Come on, it’s not like you have a life waiting for you anywhere,” Malfoy says. He’s smirking like he’s already won. 

But he’s wrong. Harry does have something waiting for him. He has his friends. He has Ginny. He has… He has people. 

Then Malfoy leans across the table to whisper, “I thought the saviour of the world was braver than this.”

It shouldn’t affect Harry the way it does. He’s been called that since he was eleven, and it’s never been more than an itch at the back of his head. But it does. It guts him because for a split second he sees in Malfoy’s eyes all the people he failed. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he says. 

“I know you have the Snitch with you.”

He rubs his temples. He can’t fucking believe Malfoy, and somehow that’s a feeling familiar enough that it borders on comforting. And that’s when it occurs to Harry that this is probably his last chance. His last chance to be someone else. Someone different than who he’s been ever since Hagrid stumbled into his life. Even if just for a little while.

So he says, “You want a dare, Malfoy?” He looks around himself. Looks at the regular people having regular conversations in a regular pub. “I dare you to do something illegal.” He takes out the Snitch before adding, “You’re not allowed to use magic.”

Malfoy takes the Snitch off his hands. He’s not smirking but Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Malfoy smile, so he’s not quite sure what the curve of his mouth means. 

 

Malfoy sort of disappears for a few days after they split up at the pub. Sort of, because Zurich is small enough that they run into each other a couple of times before Malfoy comes bearing proof of his criminal abilities. 

In the mean time, though, Harry takes the time to do something he’s never done before: travel. Yes, he’s just getting to know the city but he’s never been anywhere outside London, unless it was to school or hiding from Voldemort. Touring is not a verb Harry has ever applied to himself. So he takes the time to give it a try. 

He takes a vintage trolley around the old town —and because it’s the end of summer he manages to find a seat all by himself. He’s very glad, though, when the first stop comes and he gets to stretch his legs and take in a bit of fresh air. They’ve stopped so that they can take a look around one of the old town squares and its main church. Harry has never been too fond of churches. They always remind him of the Dursleys and school and everything before he turned eleven. He hasn’t been in a church for nearly a decade. And it’s so dark and cold inside, that Harry doesn’t know how anyone could think of anything nice in here. But then, he gets to the stained glass: the tall windows shine in red, blue, green, and yellow, and all recount different stories. Then he starts to get it. 

It’s one of the blue ones that catches Harry’s eye. There’s a man standing at the very bottom, staring at the angels on a ladder that goes all the way up. And Harry knows a bit of religion. He remembers the essentials bits but his mind is drawing a complete blank at this particular scene. Not that he is at all troubled by this. No, it’s the ladder that catches his eye, what makes him stop in front of the glass and stare while everyone else moves on. The ladder gives him the impression it goes on and on: an endless ladder that only angels seem to climb. It’s not very hard to extrapolate that it would take you to heaven. And the man who stares at all the angels from below, well he’s the mortal man, with all his mortal sins and worries, that cannot climb up the ladder, that cannot reach the heavenly top. 

When Harry looks around, everyone that came in with him is gone. He rushes out of the church and races all the way to their trolley, his driver glaring at him for being late.

On the next stop, he ends up taking pictures of a group of girls traveling together. They notice him just sort of standing there, contemplating the river by himself while everyone else is too distracted, posing for a camera. 

On their very last stop, one of them asks, “So you’re here alone?”

Harry nods, handing back her camera. “Yes, first time.”

“Ours too! Where are you staying at?” 

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles. Her face brightens when Harry mentions his hotel. He doesn’t know why; he’s only there because Hermione said that’s where her parents stayed when they came, and he had no idea how, nor time to pick a different place. 

“Wow!” she says, her grin now twice as stretched. “You must be rich or something. _We_ are staying at a hostel. But you should have us over. You know, for drinks. You must get lonely.”

Harry swallows. “I’m not, not rich,” he lies. 

Then he thinks of Malfoy. They ran into each other at the tram station in the morning, which means they must be staying close to each other. He wonders what Malfoy would say if he saw Harry with these girls. Somehow, he doesn’t reckon Malfoy would be too impressed. Not that it matters, of course. It’s just. Harry’s not interested, and he learnt his lesson on leading people on from Ron in sixth year. 

“I have plans for tonight,” he lies again. Then adds, because the girl actually looks very disappointed, “But I hope you have a nice trip.”

“Sure,” she replies, walking back to her friends.

They get on the bus and none of them speak to Harry again. 

 

Harry does the tourist thing for two whole days before Malfoy comes knocking on his hotel door. 

“How d’you know I was here?” He asks once he’s opened the door.

Malfoy’s cheeks are pink from the sun but he still manages a perfect smirk when he answers, “We’re staying in the same hotel, Potter, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Wha— But I haven’t seen you at breakfast!” Harry doesn’t mean for it to be an accusation… but it sort of is.

“I do not feed myself with commoner’s food, Potter. I can perfectly well afford room service.”

“You and your family should be broke.”

Malfoy waves away Harry’s objection. “Alas, we’re not. Banks, yet another reason why Switzerland was always a happy compromise.” Taking a seat by the coffee table, he pulls from his pocket a series of Muggle-looking photographs. 

Harry is hasty in taking them in his hands to prove their Muggle-ness. And true to the challenge, the pictures are all genuinely non-magical. He recognises the high, stained glass in the photos, remembering from his tour that taking pictures is, indeed, forbidden. He stops at the one in blue, with a ladder running right across the middle. The infinite, impossible ladder. 

“In most churches in Zurich, it is illegal to take pictures,” Malfoy explains. But what Harry doesn’t understand is how Malfoy managed to get his hands on a Muggle camera in the first place.

“Unbelievable,” he says, examining the photos.

“I can take you to the bloody churches if you’d like. I’m not lying.”

Harry frowns, then looks up at Malfoy who’s sitting with his legs crossed and his arms folded over his chest. “No, I didn’t mean not believing you about the churches… I meant. Who did you bribe, Malfoy?” he asks, perfectly seriously. 

“No one,” Malfoy replies dryly. “ _We_ can go back if you don’t believe me. Though I should probably tell you to be prepared to run if we’re still operating under the no-magic rule.”

“Why?”

“The guards may or may not have chased me down the road to take the camera from me,” Malfoy says, as nonchalant as ever. “There may have been some insulting involved. And some banning for life from the premises.”

Malfoy is perfectly not bothered by any of this. And truth be told, neither is Harry. Mostly, it’s the absurdity of their whole situation what makes Harry purse his lips. The effort not to laugh is, of course, in vain, because when Malfoy raises a quizzical eyebrow at him, Harry can’t control it anymore. And he starts laughing, cackling at the image of Malfoy running away from some Muggle church-guards. 

And he laughs, he laughs so hard he has to clutch his stomach and support his weight on the nearest surface he finds. Which happens to be Malfoy’s shoulder. Harry only notices this once he’s stopped wheezing. He wipes tears from his eyes and then finds himself right in Malfoy’s face. 

He blinks, suddenly aware of his surroundings. 

They swallow at the same time but it’s Malfoy who speaks first, “Potter.”

“Yeah?” 

“Your hand is on my shoulder,” Malfoy clarifies. 

Harry takes his hand away in one swift movement. He hadn’t even noticed his hand was there. “Right,” he says. 

“You’re still in my face, Potter,” Malfoy says. 

Harry pushes away. “Right. Right.”

They’re quiet for a moment, Harry not really knowing quite what to do with himself. 

“I’m bored of Zurich,” Malfoy says eventually. “I fancy Paris, now. It’s been a while.” He takes out the Snitch from his pocket and places it on the table. Harry nods and moves his hand to close over the golden ball but Malfoy beats him to it. “I’ll give it to you when we get there,” he says. 

He pockets the Snitch again, standing up to show himself out. When he’s at the door, he turns. “I expect you to be ready by nine. I’ve made arrangements for us already. No need to pretend we’re traveling alone now.”

As the door opens and closes, Harry just stands there, looking at the space Malfoy’s just vacated, not knowing what to make of the whole thing. Then he looks down at the photos again and although they don’t move, although they’re quite regular, the thought of Malfoy taking them makes Harry smile. 

 

Harry dreams of an endless ladder that night. He climbs and climbs and his legs are tired, they hurt and he’s breathless and about to fall face first. But he keeps dragging his feet, on and on. 

Malfoy nearly beheads him when he’s late in the morning. 

 

They take the train to Paris, which shouldn’t surprise Harry as much as it does. Yet every now and then, he can’t help sneaking looks at Malfoy as they ride in silence. 

Finally, Malfoy says, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry replies, eyes glued to the window. Then, turning back at Malfoy, he adds, “It’s just. Well, you’ve been rather… Muggle, lately.”

“So have you.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “But that’s different. I haven’t tried to murd—” he stops himself mid-sentence as it occurs to him that implying Malfoy is a Muggle-murderer might not be the polite thing to do. “I was raised by Muggles and you, er, weren’t.”

Malfoy leans across the table. He fixes his eyes on Harry’s and smirks. “Does this mean we’re ready to talk about all your feelings, Potter?”

Harry quickly looks away, pretending not to know what Malfoy is talking about. “You haven’t used magic either,” he says. 

“Of course I have,” Malfoy replies, reclining on his seat. “Life would be too boring and complicated otherwise. Although you seem to be making do.”

“So why haven’t you? Used magic, I mean. I haven’t seen you.”

Malfoy fixes his eyes on the window, cheeks slightly pink. “I’m, uh, accommodating you.” 

“There’s nothing to accommodate.”

“Fine,” Malfoy replies. He crosses his arms and legs, and if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say Malfoy is pouting. 

 

Malfoy isn’t really into the whole tourist thing. He looks down his nose at Harry and rolls his eyes whenever Harry drags them into a shop at the train station to get a guide. He definitely scoffs when he sees Harry’s purchased _The Tourist’s Guide to Paris_ , calls the whole thing an abomination. 

As it turns out, the Malfoys have a flat a street away from the Opera. Not that Harry has any reference as to what that means, but it must mean something because Malfoy looks disgustingly smug when he that announces Harry is allowed to stay with him. 

Harry suggests the tube as he tries to figure out where the nearest metro station is, but Malfoy gives him a long-suffering look before marching straight for the taxis. Inside the cab, Malfoy says something to the driver in what sounds like a perfect French accent. 

Harry tries, and fails miserably, not to gape at this. “You speak French, too?”

Malfoy smirks. “What can I say? We can’t all be illiterate saviours of the world, can we?”

“Ha ha.”

The flat is nice, though. There’s a guest room ready for Harry, which makes him think there must be house-elves somewhere. The flat is spotless, perfectly decorated and there’s not a hint of dust anywhere. 

He’s barely settled in when he hears a knock on his door. 

“We’re going out for dinner,” Malfoy announces, because apparently he’s forgotten it’s always polite to ask first. “I haven’t had a decent wine in ages.”

Which reminds Harry of this tiny article in his _A Tourist’s Guide to Paris_. He takes it from the table, flips through it while he says, “There’s a few places in my guide—”

“Do not,” Malfoy says, taking the guide from Harry’s hands and putting it away. “Mention that commoner’s thing to me. I know a place. Wear something…” Malfoy gives him a once-over that makes Harry feel strangely uncomfortable. “I’d say nice but I have a feeling you cannot be trusted with dressing yourself so I won’t even bother.” Malfoy looks on the verge of adding something else, and Harry is almost surprised when what comes out of his mouth next is, “Be ready at eight,” and not _I’ll call the tailor, tell him it’s an emergency_. 

Harry’s still half-sure Malfoy considered it. 

 

Malfoy wasn’t joking about the dress code. Harry is positive he chose the restaurant on purpose, just to make Harry feel awkward and inadequate as they sit in a room full of people in fancy dresses and suits. Harry tries to avoid his shirt-and-plain-trousers reflection in the window as Jean-Marc, their pompous waiter, guides them to their table.

Jean-Marc gives them two menus and a wine list. Malfoy picks something Harry cannot even begin to comprehend before Jean-Marc leaves them to it. When he comes back with their wine, Malfoy makes a whole show out if it. Harry had no idea you could sniff and look at wine for so long, honestly. 

Jean-Marc, however, seems very impressed. He nods at Malfoy’s (probably) smug comments. It’s at least fifteen minutes of “ah”s and “oui”s and Jean-Marc smiling with his horrible teeth before Harry finally gets his glass filled. 

Then Jean-Marc takes out a notepad and a pen to take their order. Malfoy’s voice is smooth, doesn’t stumble over any of the words, which only makes Jean-Marc glow even more, like he can’t quite believe Malfoy is a real human being. But then he turns to Harry, a look of disdain in his eyes, and all Harry can say is, a very eloquent, “Er.” In the middle of his despair, he shoots Malfoy a look that he hopes says, _save me from this, you owe me_.

Harry could swear he sees Jean-Marc rolling his eyes. But then Malfoy is pointing at another thing on the menu that the Frenchman writes down before he walks away. 

Jean-Marc is sauntering back to wherever he came from, probably going there to gossip about Harry’s lack of French when Malfoy starts snickering. 

“Are you enjoying this?” Harry asks. 

“I am.”

“I cannot believe I agreed to this,” Harry mutters. Then, “What did you order?”

“Duck,” Malfoy answers. 

“Duck?” Harry parrots.

Malfoy simply shrugs. “It’s the house specialty. Now, shut up and let me enjoy my wine. I haven’t had—”

“A decent one in ages,” Harry finishes for him, doing his best to imitate Malfoy holding his glass.

Malfoy glares at him before taking a sip from his wine. His eyes flutter close as swallows. He licks his lips and, when he sets the glass back on the table, his mouth is as red and shiny as an apple. 

Malfoy’s quizzical brow tells Harry he’s been staring. He downs his first glass in a single go, looking away. It occurs to Harry, as he’s avoiding Malfoy’s entire face, that the restaurant is full of couples holding hands and leaning across tables to kiss. 

 

“Our waiter,” Harry starts as soon as they’re walking out on the street. He never drinks much wine and so he feels a bit tipsy. He doesn’t know much about wine but maybe two bottles between them was a bit too much. Nevertheless, “ _Jean-Marc_ , or whatever his name was, was flirting with you.”

“I know,” Malfoy replies. “He wrote a number on the back of the check.”

Before Harry can think, the first words out of his mouth are, “But you were with me!”

Malfoy stares at him, lips pursed as though he’s trying not to laugh. He says, “It’s a pity I have no idea what that number is.”

“Well, good,” Harry says and then has to try very hard not to bang his head against the nearest wall. 

“Are you worried about my cherry, Potter? Because let me tell you—”

“Of course not!”

“Whatever. He was perfectly adequate.”

“He was—” Harry doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. 

“Gay,” Malfoy finishes for him. “And so am I.”

Harry thinks, _yes, I know_. Instead, he says, “Oh.”

“You’re very eloquent tonight, Potter. More so than usual.”

“Oh, shut it.”

They walk in silence until Malfoy suddenly stops, just a couple of streets away from his place.

“But you’re okay with it,” he says.

Harry doesn’t miss a beat when he replies, “Yeah.”

 

They don’t see much of each other after that. Harry is dead set on at least going to the _Tour Eiffel_ , while Malfoy still says he’d rather slice his own wrists and drink his own blood before he goes and mingles with _la foule_ — and when Harry asked what that meant, Malfoy replied, “the sweat-drenched Muggle crowd, Potter.” Which Harry doesn’t think is true. There’s no way two words in French can carry the extent of Malfoy’s disgust. 

But that’s not the point. The point is, they’ve barely seen each other for two weeks when Malfoy comes banging at Harry’s door at fuck o’clock in the morning. 

“Come on. I’ve decided on a dare,” he says, a little too happy for this early in the morning. 

 

They spend the entire morning walking around, with Harry half-starved because Malfoy wouldn’t let him have a proper breakfast. In the end, Harry has to settle for a crêpe from a street stand. The line is long enough that Malfoy disappears for a few minutes and then comes back, a creepy smile on his face.

“What?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy shrugs. He gets away with not answering because Harry’s up for ordering. Eventually, Malfoy takes pity on Harry and his babbling — or maybe he just gets tired of waiting — and translates his order. 

At least his crêpe is nice. Though Harry doesn’t get too long to enjoy it before Malfoy leads them to Pont des Arts. Now, Harry only knows the name because he’s been reading his guide intensely and despite all of Malfoy’s protests whenever he sees it around. 

Malfoy’s smile only gets creepier the further they walk down the bridge. Harry doesn’t want to think about that too hard. He tries enjoying the view of the Seine with the Louvre on one side and all those locks surrounding the bridge. 

Harry is standing in the middle of the bridge when Malfoy announces, “Get me one of those locks, Potter, how about it.” Harry rolls his eyes. Of course this would be Malfoy’s dare. “In fact, why don’t you steal that one.” Malfoy points at a large purple lock, the one that’s holding about ten other locks. 

“Fine,” Harry says. However, it isn’t until Malfoy raises his eyebrows that he gets that Malfoy means right now. “I can’t steal it now!”

“I think you can,” Malfoy replies. “Or are you scared?” Then he adds, “Here, I’ll even make it easier for you.” He takes a step closer to Harry so that their chests are almost brushing. Harry feels himself starting to blush, a warm feeling in his chest that lasts all of one second before it is replaced by something so utterly ugly, Harry cannot begin to describe it. Harry feels Malfoy putting a wand in his back pocket, and the bottom of his stomach drops; maybe the crêpe was not such a good idea after all. And in the middle of this horrible, clouding dread, Harry hears Malfoy’s voice like a distant echo, saying, “I’ll even let you use magic.”

He reaches into his pocket for the wand. 

“Fuck you,” Harry says and means it too. 

But Malfoy just raises his eyebrow. He’s not going to change his mind. 

He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, about how he feels like he might vomit into the Seine, or better yet, fling himself from the bridge. He just moves to the side of the bridge, knees weak and palms sweaty, his back right in front of the purple lock. He draws a breath. No one seems to see him, not that Harry would notice, he’s got his heart in his ears. 

He flicks his wand, a non-verbal spell to get the lock open. A spell that he can’t remember but still performs because Harry knows how to fall back on pure, terrible instinct. An instinct that knows his magic better than he knows himself. With his other hand, Harry catches all the locks before they clamour to the floor. It’s easy to figure out which one is the large lock without looking at them and then he’s back at binding the rest to the bridge with his wand. Another pulse of magic, another non-verbal spell. 

And Harry remembers what this used to feel like, magic running through his fingers. He remembers a lot of other things, too. Remembers his scar on fire like a phantom pain and the pain on Mrs Weasley’s face when she saw Fred. He remembers all the crying faces. He remembers the dirt on them, the burns and scratches and how instinct and luck weren’t good enough. 

The world doesn’t end but maybe it should. Bile rises in his throat, the crowd seems as though it’s drawing closer and closer to him and a rush of panic settles in. That’s when his flight instinct takes over. 

“Potter. Potter, come on!” Harry hears Malfoy calling after him, but he’s all but running away as fast as he can. 

He crosses on a green light; someone honks at him. A bicycle nearly runs him over, a man with a baguette yells at him when Harry nearly knocks into him. And he keeps on rushing, heading anywhere and nowhere. Just away. But then he turns a corner and finds himself in a dark alley with a dead end that smells of piss and sweat. Then Malfoy turns up. 

There’s a wall in front of him, a wall that looks a lot like the entrance to Diagon Alley. There’s Malfoy behind him. 

Harry tastes bile, and before he realises it, he's vomiting onto his shoes. He braces himself against the wall, his chest hurts, he can barely breathe and it’s not about the smell. 

Then he feels a hand on his shoulder. Harry cranes his neck to see Malfoy staring at him, like he can’t quite believe what’s going on. 

Something in Malfoy’s eyes flicks, he scrunches his nose. “Lovely venue you’ve picked,” he says. 

And Harry tries to chuckle but ends up choking on thin air instead. Malfoy squeezes his shoulder, helps Harry off the wall. His hand doesn’t quite leave Harry, it moves down to his elbow, where it settles as Malfoy says, “I’m sorry. I thought. I didn’t realise you were. I was… trying to help, I guess.”

Malfoy looks honest, like he really does believe what he said. Whatever he said. And Harry’s heart still hasn’t settled, and he doesn’t feel like fighting, he doesn’t feel like he has a match for whatever Malfoy is offering right now. And Malfoy’s face is looking at him, so honest, like he gets it. 

It makes Harry angry, so angry. Because, “What the fuck do you know about it?” Harry jerks Malfoy’s hand away, glares at Malfoy. 

“What do—” Malfoy starts, wide-eyed. A second later, he’s squinting, and Harry knows he’s angry, too. “What do _I_ know about it?” Malfoy spats. “I’ll tell you what I fucking know about it, Potter. I had to flee out here the moment it was all over because I couldn’t breathe. It was months before I stopped throwing up at the thought of magic. I… I Imperio’d that girl and she almost—” Malfoy cuts himself short, draws a breath. “She almost died, and it would’ve been my fault.”

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Harry insists, still willing to put up a fight because there’s a part of him that’s infinitely scared of what this whole thing means. 

“Oh, but I did.”

“Dumbledore would’ve—” 

“Dumbledore would’ve given three shits about Father.” He pauses and looks away from Harry. “Do you really think, Potter, if you had parents, that you wouldn’t do every terrible thing in this world to save them?”

And Harry has no answer to that. Probably. Definitely. Then he remembers Malfoy was sixteen when Harry found him crouched over a sink in Myrtle’s bathroom. Harry’s stomach hurts. He’s so fucking tired.

“I think I might be dying of intoxication,” Malfoy announces, cutting right through the silence. 

 

There’s a ladder that Harry climbs. Step by step until every muscle in his legs hurts. He goes on and on. His vision becomes blurred, he’s too tired. Then he blinks, looks up, expecting to find more infinite steps. He finds Malfoy peering down at him. He seems to be on some sort of platform, Harry can only see Malfoy’s head resting on his arms as though he’s been contemplating Harry for a while, strands of blond hair falling over his face. Harry is expecting him to extend his hand, pull him all the way up to wherever he is. 

Instead, Malfoy leans down to whisper in his ear, “Wake up, Potter.”

Then Harry jerks awake. He’s alone in the bedroom. When he opens the door, there’s no one there. 

 

They stay in Paris long enough that Harry starts getting used to it. To the people walking around with baguettes under their arms and all the tourists with their Polaroids and poses. He gets used to the smell of bakeries and the taste of wine. He even starts understanding why Malfoy takes so long choosing it — though Harry would never go into a wine store, ask all these questions about _terroir_ and who knows what else to then decide he’s wasted an hour of everyone’s time and buy nothing because, “the entire collection is subpar.” Harry has learned enough French that he now has the privilege of understanding Malfoy’s insults in two languages. Malfoy still laughs at his accent, though. 

They develop a routine: breakfast together in the mornings, then what Harry has come to consider as dare-time until dinner, then dinner at eight. Rinse and repeat. Harry supposes it could be boring. But last week Malfoy came back dripping on the carpet because he got knocked over into a fountain while he attempted to retrieve ten francs from it. “Did you know, _Potter_ , that now they’ve changed their currency to these asinine euros?” Malfoy’d asked as he threw the wet coins on the table. 

“Yes,” Harry’d replied, counting the coins to make sure Malfoy’d gotten all ten francs.

It took Harry four days to come up with a plan to vandalise a statue in the Parthenon in a non-permanent way because, “We’re not going to destroy history, Potter.” He had to use a spell to get the paint working properly. His hands sweated but it was different. Harry didn’t think about it. After all, he was worried he’d be caught. 

(Hermione actually wrote to him about that one, asking whether it had been them. It was all over the _Prophet_ , some wizard had used magical, self-vanishing paint to wreak havoc upon French Muggle property. _I know the paint vanishes after a couple of days, Harry, but still, what are you doing? Ron says hi, by the way, wants to know if you’ll be home for Christmas. He’s not angry over Ginny. I don’t think he ever really was, honestly. Just. You disappeared on us for a while, okay? So, write to him, yes? I don’t want this to be like fourth year all over again._ )

Then there was the time in the Jardins de Tuileries when Harry accidentally threw the Snitch a little too high and too fast that it actually took flight and had Harry and Malfoy running after it for something close to an hour. “You’re a fuckwit, Potter,” Malfoy’d said when Harry finally caught the Snitch. Malfoy came close. But Harry won, so ha. 

And through all their dares, Malfoy manages to get on Harry’s nerves more often than not. It’s just… He’s such a know-it-all, really. And not a nice know-it-all, like Hermione, who at least manages to not to look smug every time she imparts knowledge. No, Malfoy is just complacent and annoying, and his latest display of arrogance over a painting he dared Harry to steal might just be the death of one of them. 

“What?” Harry asks, exasperated, when Malfoy takes a little too long examining the painting in question. 

“Sometimes, Muggles are surprisingly smart,” he replies. 

“ _What_?”

“The German critic who described this movement,” he explains, a look of smug superiority on his face. “Coined the term magic realism to describe it. The term then went on to take on a life of its own in literature but that’s besides the point.”

“And what is the point?” _Other than showing off_ , Harry doesn’t say. 

“You should read some magic realism, Potter,” Malfoy answers. Then something in his face changes. His eyes are sharp when they stare into Harry’s. Sharp and intense when he says, “Muggles are dull and everything, but even they seem to know there’s a bit of magic in everything.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I travel, Potter,” Malfoy retorts, his face back to its usual smugness whenever he knows something Harry doesn’t, which is more often than Harry likes. “And I study. Or used to, same difference.”

It’s annoying how much Malfoy seems to know. Harry doesn’t remember him being this smart in school. Something must be done about it, Harry thinks. And so that’s how the middle of November finds him trying to out-dare and out-smart Malfoy. He’s in the sitting room with a cup of tea in his hand and a map of Paris spread out on the table. 

“Having trouble getting creative?” Malfoy drawls from behind his back. 

Harry supposes he’d be feeling pretty smug too, if he’d just managed to keep Malfoy occupied for the better part of a week trying to figure out how to steal and replace valuable artwork. 

Harry has half a mind to tell Malfoy to piss off. Instead, Harry ignores him. He’s learned that ignoring Malfoy is the best way to get on his nerves. 

Predictably, Malfoy continues talking without any encouragement. “Would a change of scenery help?” 

And that, that catches Harry’s attention. He looks up and finds Malfoy sprawled along the length of the canapé, arms flung over his head in a dramatic pose of absolute boredom. 

“Like what?” Harry asks. 

“I fancy seeing the Northern Lights.”

“The Northern Lights,” Harry parrots. 

“Have you never fancied being in the North Pole for Christmas?” Malfoy asks next.

“I hear it gets rather cold,” Harry replies dryly. 

“Oh, to be there for the festivities!” Malfoy exclaims, throwing his arms in the air, an act of theatrics fit for Shakespeare. 

“Have you eaten something funny today?”

“I am bored, Potter. Out of my bloody mind bored. I want something new.”

“Why don’t you get a job, then?” Harry asks, going back to his map.

“How about you get a job and stop living off me.”

“I pay for groceries!”

“Your groceries.” Malfoy flings his arms over his face again. Harry rolls his eyes. “I will never eat that coco puff, Muggle poisonous abomination.”

 

Harry thought he knew about the Northern Lights. After all, he’d seen them through his dorm window at Hogwarts. Yes, they were pretty. But he only agreed to a spontaneous trip to Finland to get Malfoy off his back. He had no idea what to expect when Malfoy took them to a wizarding resort in the middle of a lot of snow. But now it’s well past midnight, and Harry is still staring up at the sky, dumbstruck because these lights are dancing above him, and Harry has never, ever stared at anything quite like them. Because, even though he has seen them before, Harry has never taken the time to stare at them like this. At Hogwarts, he had been mesmerised by all the other kinds of light magic produced. But here, there’s only him and Malfoy, and the lights above them. 

“I’ve had so many dreams about this,” Malfoy says softly. 

Surprised, Harry turns around in his bed to face Malfoy across the room. “I thought you were asleep.”

“When I had nightmares growing up,” Malfoy says. “Mother used to charm the ceiling so it’d look like this. Not quite the same, though.”

Harry believes him. Magic can do many wonderful things, but he doubts he could reproduce this. The greens and the purples and the blues. Harry could stare at the glow for the rest of eternity. 

 

They don’t do much for the week they stay in the glass igloo. Mostly they stay up until the sun rises, snacking on cauldron cakes and other assorted treats that Harry remembers from their Hogwarts days that Malfoy somehow managed to smuggle into Finland. Then they sleep until the middle of the afternoon. Their schedule is completely fucked up by day two. Harry can’t bring himself to care, though. He doubts Malfoy does either. Even if he does drag them to the main building for dinner because, “I’m not going to die in the middle of nowhere because I spent a week eating chocolate and talking about my feelings with you.”

Harry snickers at this and replies, “I thought it was because you were looking after your figure.”

“Well, that, too,” Malfoy concedes. 

They do, eventually, exchange the igloo for one of the cabins that’s closer to the main building. There’s more space, which is always nice when Malfoy is the other person you’re sharing with. Or, at least, Harry thinks it’ll be nice. Except the first night is completely bizarre because he can’t hear Malfoy breathing a couple of feet away from him. And Harry is tempted, he really is, to knock on Malfoy’s door. He doesn’t, though. 

He doesn’t sleep well, either. He dreams about the ladder again. About his tired legs and, at the end, there’s always Malfoy’s hovering face. Malfoy’s lips move but Harry can never remember what he’s said after waking up. 

Eventually, Harry goes to reception and asks what there is to do. He’s not interested in any of it, except for when the lady mentions a trip around the Finnish, lakes. “Rita Skeeter wrote about them a few years back, you know,” the lady says. 

Harry makes his way back to their cabin with a million and one ideas floating in his mind. He’s giddy, feels like he needs to sit down and write all of it up. So when he gets there and can’t find his keys, Harry’s too excited to think about what happened to them. He’s got his wand in his trousers and he’s been opening locked doors since he was eleven. 

 

“I dare you to jump in,” Harry says as smugly as he can. He’s rather glad he waited for this. Seeing Malfoy shivering in the lake is going to be so worth it. 

Malfoy, however, seems rather unimpressed. “How very original,” he says. Then adds, “And would that be naked, too?”

And Harry, who is just not expecting that, blushes. “Er…”

“Whatever,” Malfoy says, undressing. 

He gets down to his boxers rather quickly, takes a few steps until he’s right at the edge of the lake. He fidgets and wiggles his toes and jumps. 

Malfoy disappears under a wonderful splash and takes enough time to reemerge that Harry walks to see if maybe he’s drowning or something. But Malfoy’s just there, holding his breath under water. The water is clear enough that Harry can see his silhouette peering up. Probably plotting something, Harry thinks, taking a couple of steps back. 

Springing back up, Malfoy brushes the hair off his face. Even from a safe distance Harry can see his teeth chattering. 

“Help me up,” Malfoy says, a shivering hand reaching up.

“You’ll just drag me in with you,” Harry says, shaking his head and making sure there’s a safe distance between them.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. His lips are turning blue as he replies, “I really cannot pull myself up, Potter.” 

Harry squints at him, sees the purple veins through Malfoy’s almost translucent skin. He knows he’s probably gonna end up in the bottom of the lake if he takes Malfoy’s hand. There is no doubt in his mind. And yet Harry walks to him, offers his hand. 

Malfoy takes it in a freezing grip. For a second, it seems to Harry that Malfoy is not going to drag him in. Then Malfoy smirks up at him, tugs hard once and in the lake Harry goes, spluttering as he falls. 

“Sucker,” Malfoy says, teeth chattering.

Harry, because neither of them is above immaturity, spits a jet of cold water at him, laughs when Malfoy makes a disgusted face. 

After, when they’re walking back to their cabin, Harry shivering in his wet clothes, he says, “You could’ve at least dared me back, let me take my clothes off, I’m freezing!”

“Had I been aware you were so eager to get down and dirty with me…” 

“Fuck you,” Harry says, feeling his face grow warmer. 

Malfoy snickers beside him, and Harry has half a mind to sprint all the way to their cabin and lock him out. He’d have surprise on his side, he’d probably manage it. But when he turns to glare at Malfoy, Malfoy is running a hand through his wet hair. His fingers still shiver and his nose is so red, he’ll soon start leading a sleigh. 

“I hate you,” Harry says instead. 

“No, you don’t,” Malfoy replies simply. 

_No, I don’t_. 

 

When the lady at reception asks Harry whether he and his partner will be coming to the Christmas feast, Harry blushes. 

“He-We, that is, we’re not— er, what?” 

“It’s Christmas Eve two days from now, and the kitchen staff needs a list for the buffet,” she explains. 

“Oh,” Harry says. Then, “Excuse me,” and flees back to his cabin as fast as he can.

He throws the door open, throws his coat on a chair. He doesn’t realise Malfoy is there until he looks at the fireplace. There’s Malfoy, sitting on the couch, staring very hard at a piece of parchment. 

“Hullo,” Harry says, startling Malfoy out of his trance. “News from home?” Harry ventures when Malfoy just blinks at him. 

Malfoy nods. “They want to know when I’ll be heading home.”

Harry knows that’s not the whole story because Malfoy is frowning at the piece of parchment as though he could will it to explode with his eyes. So he asks, “And?”

“And the Greengrasses have been paying them lovely visits, according to Mother,” Malfoy replies. Then, quietly, “Match made in heaven.” 

It takes a moment for Harry to catch up. He hasn’t heard of arranged marriages but if any family would still do them, it’d be the Malfoys.

“I didn’t know the Greengrasses had a brother,” Harry says.

“They don’t,” Malfoy replies, offhandedly. 

“What? But don’t they—”

“They do. And it’s not a problem. It’s just.” He pauses for a deep breath. He frowns and swallows before finally saying, “The line shouldn’t die with me.”

“But you—”

Malfoy cuts him off, “It isn’t any of your business, Potter.”

“It bloody well is, you’re my—” Harry stops himself because he isn’t quite sure what Malfoy is to him. 

“I’m your what, exactly?” Malfoy asks. Harry blinks. He wants to say friend but the word seems entirely wrong. He takes a second too long so Malfoy beats him to it, “Just stay out of it.”

“But it isn’t what you want,” Harry insists. 

“You have no idea what I want.”

“I know you don’t want _that_!” Harry says, pointing an accusatory finger at the letter in Malfoy’s hand.

“I can’t,” Malfoy starts, standing up. He fixes his eyes on Harry, scrutinising him. Harry has no idea what Malfoy can’t. He still isn’t expecting it when Malfoy looks away and says, “I can’t do this with you,” before walking away. 

It’s funny, but what Harry remembers in that moment is not Malfoy braced over a sink, eyes bloodshot and scared to death. What Harry remembers is Malfoy in second year, spitting that he didn’t need Harry’s pity while he chewed on slugs. What he remembers is Malfoy being stubborn and determined and being better than this. Better than settling. 

Harry wants to tell him that. He just doesn’t know how. 

 

Malfoy does a wonderful job of pretending Harry is invisible. It lasts way past Christmas and is enough to get Harry properly riled up. He has all these conversations with himself on why Malfoy is a bloody hypocrite and how this whole thing has been a mistake from the start. 

It’s New Year’s Eve and Harry is ready to walk out, forget these months ever even happened. He could just Apparate back to London, not even leave Malfoy a note. It’s when he’s packing that Harry hears Malfoy moving about downstairs. He hasn’t seen Malfoy in five days. He knows Malfoy hasn’t left their cabin because there’s a new pile of dishes every morning waiting for the house-elves. 

Harry shakes his head. Sometimes, he really can’t believe himself, he thinks, as he walks down. 

Malfoy nearly jumps out of his chair when Harry clears his throat. 

“Malfoy,” Harry starts. Maybe he should’ve planned this. Except then Malfoy is looking back at him, his eyes an echo of his reflection in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. It feels like that was years and years ago. 

To this day, Harry has never seen anyone looking as scared. So he forgets all his conversations on hypocrisy and not giving a flying fuck and leaving.

Instead, Harry says, “I’m sorry, I overstepped.” He offers Malfoy his hand in sign of peace. 

Harry doesn’t know why, but he’s entirely relieved when Malfoy takes it. 

“I’m glad I didn’t cancel our attendance to the banquet,” Malfoy says, mouth curved up.

Which reminds Harry of what the lady said just before Christmas. “You know they all think we’re,” Harry makes hand gestures, pointing at the space between the two of them. 

“Please tell me that you didn’t _just_ realise that,” Malfoy replies and now he’s properly smiling and he’s okay.

They’re okay.

 

Harry doesn’t notice everyone has started cheering and hugging around them. He doesn’t because Malfoy steps into his personal space and puts the Snitch in his hands. 

Their faces are already so close that Harry isn’t surprised when Malfoy says, “I dare you to kiss me.”

Harry doesn’t even think about it twice. He places his hand to the back of Malfoy’s neck to close the gap. He breathes out, presses a soft kiss once, twice. Then it’s Malfoy who kisses him back, mouth open, inviting. 

They draw apart for breath and Malfoy rests his forehead on Harry’s. His eyes are still closed when he licks his lips to whisper, “Should we get back?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies. 

He grabs Malfoy’s hand and leads them back to their cabin. They don’t rush upstairs but only because Malfoy keeps pushing Harry up against the wall to kiss him properly. Harry isn’t quite sure how they manage it, but they do eventually make it past his bedroom door. 

Malfoy pushes him down on the bed, legs astride Harry’s hips. He bends his head forward to kiss Harry, grinding his hips down so hard that Harry moans into his mouth. He pushes his hips up so that he can meet Malfoy, thrust for thrust.

Then Harry gets this idea. This idea to dig the Snitch out of his pocket and say, “Dare you to shag me.”

Malfoy stops kissing Harry’s jaw. He stops and sits back on his heels, blinking at Harry. “What?” Malfoy asks. Something on his face tells Harry he shouldn’t repeat himself. Something tells Harry he’s just made a huge mistake. Malfoy stares at him, lips red and puffy, and Harry just wants to say whatever he needs to so that Malfoy will get back to attacking his mouth. 

“I…” Harry starts, holding the Snitch. 

But Malfoy doesn’t take the Snitch or get back on top of Harry. What he does is get off the bed and start looking for his shoes. 

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” Harry asks, scrambling off the bed. 

He grabs Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy jerks away. 

“Fuck you,” Malfoy says. 

He takes out his wand, and in a split second he’s gone.

——————————

Second year would have begun much the same as first if Harry had not been broken out of his Dursley prison by the Weasleys. Because as soon as Fred and George got wind of what was going down between Harry and Malfoy, they got to plotting. Plotting wonderfully horrible dares. Harry spent his free time at the Weasleys’ taking note of the twins’ atrocious ideas. 

And so it was, after the unfortunate turn of events at King’s Cross, that second year was nothing like first. At least not as far as Malfoy and Harry went. Sure they were still archenemies trying to out-dare each other. But Harry had the upper hand this time. 

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder. 

It was their second night back, and Harry sat by the fire, trying to pick a dare. 

“Oh, Harry, you’re not going to continue with that this year, too!” Hermione said, taking the parchment from Harry’s hands. “Haven’t you lost Gryffindor enough points already? And we haven’t been back for more than forty-eight hours!” 

“Hermione, give it back. If everything goes according to plan, _I_ won’t get into trouble,” Harry replied, making a grab for his precious dares. But Hermione was taller. That, and she’d taken out her wand and was pointing it at Harry.

“ _If_? I’m not giving this back, Harry,”

“Hermione, come on,” Ron said. He, too, was holding his broken wand. “Look at this thing!” He waved the stick for emphasis. “Seeing Malfoy suffer will be about the only fun I’ll have this year.”

“Well, maybe, if you two hadn’t decided to break every rule in the wizarding world and then some, you wouldn’t be saying that, Ronald.”

The look in Hermione’s eyes told Harry it was a useless fight. Sighing, Harry resigned himself to his sad fate. He should’ve been more careful. At least he remembered the more ghastly ones. 

He was proved wrong, however. It wasn’t a lost battle. It just took Malfoy calling her a Mudblood for a crying Hermione to take out a piece of parchment from her pocket. “I couldn’t—” she sniffed and wiped tears from her eyes. “I didn’t think it’d be safe… to leave it… around… but… I don’t… I don’t care!” She handed the parchment over to Harry. “I think number three and five are adequate,” she said.

Harry looked down at the paper and sure enough, three and five were particularly horrendous. But it wasn’t till Ron was hunched over a bucket that Harry picked a dare for Malfoy. 

After Hermione took Ron back to the common room, Harry asked Hagrid to keep the bucket. He ran back to the castle and sent Malfoy an owl to meet him that afternoon by the Lake just before supper. 

When Malfoy got to him, Harry had already laid out the bucket of vomited slugs and the Remembrall next to it so that there would be no mistaking what the dare was. 

Malfoy took one look at the picture in front of him before his eyes went wide in horror. “I’m not eating that,” he said, gulping and arms crossed over his chest. 

“Too bad, then. I guess you lose.”

Malfoy’s face scrunched up. Harry was absolutely certain he was this close to throwing a tantrum and crying. Well, good. He deserved this and much more for what he’d said to Hermione. Harry was ready to reach down for the Remembrall when Malfoy beat him to it. 

The determined look on Malfoy’s face made Harry take a couple of steps back. Malfoy sat down in front of the bucket. He looked white as a sheet as he reached for the first slug. Harry himself couldn’t help but shudder in horror as the thing went down Malfoy’s throat. 

Harry was surprised Malfoy went on after the first one. But he did. With each slug he looked closer and closer to passing out. Malfoy was halfway through the bucket and looking greener than Ron ever had. He was gagging with every slug, and there was a part of Harry that couldn’t help but take pity on him. A part that was growing bigger by the slug. And then it happened; Malfoy vomited back in the bucket half of what he had ingested. He panted over the bucket, arms holding onto it for dear life. 

“Malfoy, are you—” Harry started. 

He stopped when Malfoy looked up from the ground. His eyes were as determined as they had been when he’d grabbed the Remembrall. He stared from the bucket to Harry then back before sitting on the grass for a few moments. He pulled the bucket closer to him and was about to reach inside all the vomit and slugs when Harry grabbed his arm. 

“You can, er, you can stop. I mean, dare completed, whatever,” Harry said awkwardly.

“I don’t need your pity, Potter,” Malfoy replied even though he was already looking a bit relieved. “You wanted me to eat this. Fine.”

Malfoy yanked his arm from Harry’s grip. He reached once more for the disgusting goo. 

“I don’t want you to,” Harry said, and as he said it, he realised how true it was. “You deserve it. You deserve to eat something as disgusting as the words you said to Hermione.”

Malfoy jerked. There was an odd glint in his eyes when he craned his neck to look at Harry. “Oh, so that’s what this is all about? I insulted your mud—”

Harry took his wand out, pointed it at Malfoy. He had the height advantage with Malfoy still sitting on the ground. “Do not finish that sentence, Malfoy.” 

Scoffing, Malfoy stood up. He held out the Remembrall in his palm as he threatened, “I’ll get you back for this, Scarhead.”

——————————

London is rather grey, this time of the year. Well, Harry wouldn’t say London is ever a particularly colourful city. But in winter, London is always a permanent dark grey. It’s raining the day he gets in. Hermione is waiting for him at the train station. Alone. 

She greets him with a smile, and Harry hugs her because seeing her makes him realise he’s missed her. He’s missed his best friends. So he asks about Ron, and Hermione bites her lip. She doesn’t make up some excuse, she’s too honest for that. But she doesn’t tell Harry why Ron isn’t there, exactly. She just says, “You should talk to him, Harry.”

Harry nods, tries to ignore the dull headache starting to pulse against his forehead at the thought of talking to Ron about stuff. 

“Any news?” Harry asks.

“Training for the Magical Law Enforcement Office is harder than it sounds,” Hermione replies, frowning. “I wasn’t expecting it to be easy, of course. But I wasn’t expecting it to be dull, either. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. It’s just. Not the same as Hogwarts. For starters, you haven’t been around and,” she sighs, waves her hand in the air. “I like it but I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, just studying, you know?”

Harry stares at Hermione, knows exactly what she means because even with all the excitement they had at Hogwarts, she managed to find time for S.P.E.W. He smiles at her, listens while she keeps talking about her training, her superiors and all the projects she wants to set in motion once she gets certified. They walk to Harry’s flat, which is close to King’s Cross but not close enough for them to remain dry while rain pours around them. Hermione’s umbrella is barely big enough to cover the both of them so when they’re finally at his doorstep, the bottoms of their trousers are soaked, and Hermione is slightly shivering.

Harry looks for his keys in his bag. Rummages for a full minute before giving up. He looks to his sides, making sure no Muggles are around, takes out his wand and opens the door. He drops his bag on the couch, notices there’s dust everywhere. 

“Scourgify,” Harry says, flicking his wand a second time. “I’d offer you something,” Harry adds, moving to the fridge. “But I have nothing,” he finishes. 

Hermione is just sort of staring at him, and Harry thinks about asking what’s wrong. But then he sees the number of his Indian takeaway place. 

“Indian food? They also do regular beers,” Harry says, already going to the phone.

Hermione nods slowly, goes to sit by the dining table while Harry orders them dinner and a six-pack. 

 

Harry doesn’t recognise the new delivery guy. He pays for his food, and the teenager leaves, pocketing Harry’s money, without commenting on the state on Harry’s flat or the fact that Harry’s not wearing sweatpants. 

The conversation with Hermione goes on. They talk about Christmas, hers and Harry’s. They talk about plans, New Year’s resolutions, Harry’s dares, Hermione gives speeches on responsibility that neither of them buy because she smiles throughout. They finish the first six beers before they run downstairs for a bottle of wine despite Hermione’s protests.

“I need to be sober tomorrow. They’re launching a new product and Ron wants me to be there,” she says while she tries to refuse a second glass of Pinot Gris. She tilts her head. “You should come, too. All the family is supposed to go, you’ll be able to see everyone.”

“Er… I dunno about that, Hermione,” Harry says, not quite meeting her eyes.

“So you disappeared for a few months,” Hermione retorts. “Harry, they’d be happy to see you.”

Harry nods. But. But. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Harry says. He braces himself, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Exhales, opens them again. 

“I almost slept with Malfoy,” Harry says before he starts recounting all the small things he’d left out of the original tale. 

 

Hermione is patient. She’s always been patient but now she’s slightly drunk, too, which means she’s more… loose, Harry guesses. She asks all sorts of questions about Malfoy’s sexuality, questions Harry doesn’t have an answer to. Then she asks about Harry’s sexuality, questions he’s never really considered. Finally, she asks, “But what do you mean, _almost_?”

And Harry swallows, rubs a hand through his face. 

“I think I fucked up, Hermione,” Harry says. He doesn’t mean it to be a whisper, to sound desperate or sad. Yet, somehow, the words manage get away from him.

He tries to tell this part of the story with as little emotion as possible. 

“Oh, Harry,” is all Hermione says once he’s done. 

Harry doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. 

 

Harry does go to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes the morning after. He’s fighting a mild hangover that turns into a violent need to vomit as soon as he sees Ginny standing next to her brothers, all soft curves and long, silky hair. 

Mrs Weasley spots him first, squeals and proceeds to hold him in her arms so tight and for so long that George has to tap her shoulder to save Harry from asphyxiation. And there’s a tension underlying every other interaction that Harry has with the Weasleys that morning. Something no one will mention but that lingers in the air like a bad smell. 

Yet, despite of all that, there’s something about the Weasleys that feels like home to him. That will always feel like home. So Harry pushes through the bad smell until they’re all laughing at his recount of that time he vandalised Muggle property. And if Ron looks at him and Ginny sideways, well, that’s a conversation Harry plans to have later. 

Except later becomes that very same afternoon when Ron, Hermione and Harry go out for lunch because the joke shop is bursting with people, and they all want a break. No part of Harry wants to get into what happened with Malfoy but Hermione says she needs to get a book, shoots Harry a meaningful look as she stands up. 

“That was subtle,” Ron says once she’s already walking away.

Harry laughs a little forced laugh, nods. They speak at the same time. While Ron says “Listen,” Harry says “Ron, I—” They laugh again, this time more naturally.

The conversation is stilted, awkward. Ron asks questions that Harry can’t exactly answer. But when Harry finally tells Ron about Malfoy, about what really happened, Ron sits quietly for a few seconds. He stares at Harry as though Harry’s face has got all the answers to the questions that must be running wild in his mind. 

“Ron,” Harry says, eventually. 

“I… You’re my mate, Harry. My best mate, no matter who you, er, you know.” Then he stops himself, shakes his head. “You know how to pick them, don’t you?” Ron says. He looks the same way he did back in sixth year when Harry all but snogged Ginny in his face. Ron’s face still says, _Well, if you must_. Then Ron adds, “First my sister, then our sworn enemy.” He shakes his head, all fake disapproval.

“But you’re okay with this?” Harry still asks, just to be sure. 

“Of course I am, Harry. We’re mates,” Ron replies. He pats Harry’s shoulder, then adds, “But, you gotta talk to my sister.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Apparently that’s all the explanation Ron needs before reverting back to giving Harry a passionate speech about the Chudley Cannons’ chances this season. It’s almost like no time at all has passed. 

 

When Harry finally gathers up the courage to talk to Ginny, he asks her to meet him at Madam Rosmerta’s for an afternoon butterbeer. He apologises first, for being a jerk, for leaving without notice, for never writing. Ginny listens patiently, never getting angry or sad. She does make Harry go pink all the way to down to his neck when she asks what it all means for _them_. 

Ginny stares sharply at him, says, “You met someone, didn’t you?” 

“Not quite,” Harry replies. As honest as he can. 

“But she—”

“He,” Harry corrects.

Ginny raises a delicate red eyebrow at him. “Okay,” she replies. “Okay, well _he_ has been good for you.”

“How can you tell?” 

“You’re different. More at ease with… Well, with everything,” she says. Then, touching with her index finger just above the bridge of his nose, she adds, “Also, you’ve gotten rid of that permanent frown of yours.”

She smiles and Harry smiles back. And then Harry is reminded of just how smart Ginny is. They’re smiling at each other like dorks when Ginny blinks a couple of times. Tilting her head, she squints at Harry before her lips curve into a knowing smirk. 

“You slept with Malfoy, didn’t you?” she states. 

She snorts at her own statement, like she can’t believe those words have left her mouth. But they have, so Harry figures he might as well come clean. 

“Not quite,” he replies and sighs.

“‘Not quite’? Is that your new phrase?” Ginny teases. “Well, what happened?”

“Ginny,” Harry starts but Ginny cuts him off. 

“Harry,” she says, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I was under no illusions of us getting back together, even before you left. We ran our course.” There’s a pause, and then she crosses her arms over her chest. She makes her face of faked indignity and continues, “And now you’ve gone and stopped all contact while you not-quite shagged Malfoy’s brains out. I think I at least deserve all the juicy details.”

They both burst out laughing at the same time, and Harry gets a flash of nostalgia because being with Ginny has always been easy, has always been fun. He missed her, so he tells her that. And Ginny rolls her eyes, tells him of course he has. 

“But don’t think your sappiness will get you out of telling me how you came to snog a certain pale-faced git,” Ginny says.

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. But he does tell the story, starts with the funny bits, the things no one imagined Malfoy would be. Like his extensive knowledge of languages or his ability to pick up French waiters. Ginny asks if his jealousy was what tipped Harry off on his feelings because, “You and my brother can be bloody thick when it comes to that.” 

And so the story goes until Harry reaches the events of New Year’s Eve. 

Ginny, surprisingly, has the same reaction as Hermione. 

She puts a hand on his knee, saying, “Oh, Harry.”

Then Harry replies, “Hermione said the same thing.”

“It seems to me like we’re having the appropriate reaction,” Ginny says. “And now I’m gonna ask the question Hermione didn’t because she probably felt bad for you.”

“And you don’t?”

“Nope,” she replies.

“Guess I deserve that.”

“I refuse to let you wallow in more self-pity,” Ginny states, looking intently at him. Then, “Harry, do you know why Malfoy left?”

“Er…” Harry starts, which is clearly the wrong way of going about the question because Ginny covers her face with her hands and shakes her head while muttering under her breath something that sounds a lot like _of course you don’t_. “What?” Harry asks.

“Back in sixth year, would you have shagged me if I’d dared you to?” Ginny asks, which to Harry is quite frankly a very stupid question. 

“No,” Harry answers immediately. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Harry.”

“er… I, I’d want you to want to do it and not because of a dare?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, but this is Malfoy.”

“Harry, you’re not this thick.”

And Harry likes to think he’s not bloody incompetent. So he thinks back to all those moments he spent with Malfoy, thinks about the time Malfoy genuinely tried to help, thinks about how Malfoy _cared_. 

“Oh,” Harry says. Then, “Bloody hell, I’m an arsehole.”

“But you clean up nicely,” Ginny says.

“What should I do?” Harry moans, tracing the rim of his butterbeer.

He regrets deeply not having a stronger drink. 

But Ginny is having none of his self-pity. She makes him look at her, tells him to stop being a daft cow. Tells him to write to Malfoy, to apologise, beg if he has to.

“When someone makes you this happy, they’re worth fighting for,” she says. 

Harry thinks there’s something a bit sad, a bit nostalgic about the way Ginny smiles. Something bittersweet when she takes his hand and squeezes tight. 

 

Harry does write to Malfoy. He writes once, a simple, tight apology that never mentions feelings of any kind. Just your standard, ‘I’m sorry I was an arse’ letter. A week later, when Malfoy still hasn’t replied, Harry writes a second letter saying he really is sorry. Asking if they can meet up so Harry can properly explain. He writes down something about not realising he was hurting Malfoy’s feelings but then scratches it out because that seems awfully presumptuous of him. He has to start the letter all over again because he’s afraid Malfoy will be able to see behind all the blotched ink and read that bit. 

Malfoy still doesn’t reply. 

It takes all of Harry’s self-control not to write a third time. And Harry doesn’t know why, but the more days pass without an answer, the more he starts thinking about their time together. 

First it’s the little things. Like, once, when he’s getting groceries, and he’s trying to figure out what bread to buy while lamenting the fact that English people don’t do their bread the same as the French. He thinks Malfoy probably has encountered the same problem, prissy as he is. Harry bets Malfoy has his own little bakery, hidden in some corner where only he and selected people can buy proper French baguettes. The items that he picks quickly start deviating from those on his list as Harry gets too distracted to pay attention to what he’s dumping into the cart. 

That is just the start. Two weeks after the second letter, Harry starts properly obsessing over Malfoy. He can’t seem to stop thinking about him, talking about him and, consequently, getting pissed off at him for holding a grudge against an honest mistake. Trust Malfoy to be uncompromising over this. 

It gets to the point where Hermione, very nicely to her credit, compares Harry’s current state of mind to him in sixth year, when he followed Malfoy around because he was convinced he had the Dark Mark. 

“It’s nothing like that,” Harry replies defensively.

He takes a long sip of Muggle beer while he slips further into his old sofa.

“Of course it isn’t,” Hermione says. 

Harry narrows his eyes at her. He knows she’s about to say something terrible. 

Hermione doesn’t disappoint. “It’s almost good this time around.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

Hermione gives him a long suffering look before answering, “He’s been good for you, Harry.”

“Yes, his not replying has done wonders.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Hermione says sternly. “I mean. Your time with him was good for you. We can all see it, Harry.”

“You say that like I was crazy before,” Harry replies.

“Not crazy, Harry, just. The war was hard on all of us, but harder on you. And of course it was, Harry, everyone was looking up to you and you were just a kid. We were all just kids.” She pauses, biting her lip. “But when you came back from wherever you were with Malfoy—”

“Finland,” Harry interrupts, because that seems to be necessary information.

“Finland,” Hermione concedes. “Harry, you were doing magic. And I. I didn’t want to say anything before because I wasn’t sure you were aware of what that meant. But it’s been almost a month since you came back and you’re still doing magic. If anything, you’re more comfortable with it every day.”

Harry freezes. Of course Hermione is right. Of course he hadn’t thought about it. Hasn’t even considered magic since Paris. It just… comes to him. Natural, like it’s meant to be and Harry can’t reject it. 

“I stopped thinking about it,” Harry confesses. The moment the words leave his mouth, a chill runs down his spine. 

Distantly, he hears Hermione say, “Maybe you should.”

 

After Hermione leaves, magic is all Harry can think about. He tries not to, at first. Yet, the more he forces his mind to go anywhere else but magic, the more his thoughts insist on betraying him. 

That night, Harry switches off the lights and closes the door to his room with his own hands. An unpleasant taste settles in the back of his throat. 

He wakes up to the same taste, the same feeling of dread. But he forces himself to wake up. Forces himself to open every window in his flat even though it’s freezing outside. And then he just sort of stands there, contemplating London’s endless greyness and the passerby’s below in black. Harry doesn’t know what it is about winter that makes people always wear black. As if the sky alone weren’t depressing enough. At least during Christmas there’s red and green. But it’s the end of January and all the lights have been taken down. 

Harry wonders briefly what it would be like, living as a Muggle for the rest of his life. He’s thinking about it when a pigeon flies right past him and into his living room. He tries to shoo it out, tries to scare it away, but all Harry’s attempts manage is to make it fly higher to the highest surface in his kitchen. So Harry, not thinking about it, takes his wand and casts a spell to gently lead it outside. It isn’t until Harry is done closing the door, until he settles his wand on the windowsill, that he realises he’s just done magic again. 

Harry still doesn’t want to think about it too much. He’s still uncomfortable with his own thoughts, especially if he’s alone. So Harry tries his best not to be alone, starts actually going to the things he gets invited to, starts seeing old friends again. That’s how he ends up getting roped into buying a new flat closer to Diagon Alley. He goes to a party, and Luna mentions something about an ad in the _Prophet_. She says it with the same elevated, but still perceptive, voice she’s always had. So Harry looks into it. The place is not furnished, but the view is far better than the one from the flat he currently rents.

He buys it. The days become progressively longer, a little less grey as Harry goes through the process of acquiring a new home. There’s things to move, spaces to furnish and decorate. It gives him something to do. Something to obsess over instead of the lack of reply from Malfoy or Hermione’s words. 

There’s curtains to buy, carpets to match and mattresses to try. And Harry is fine doing all of those on his own, really. He has never been a guru when it comes to taste, but he can make his new furniture match. The real problem only comes when he’s lying on a mattress and starts wondering whether Malfoy would approve. He probably has some complicated standards regarding back support. And then, Harry can’t stop. 

It’s been almost a month since his last letter to Malfoy, and Harry starts seeing him everywhere, anywhere. Every blond head makes Harry turn in vain hope. And he misses Malfoy. Misses him terribly, impossibly and stupidly because they have never been friends. Never anything more. 

Yet Harry finds himself wishing he could take back that moment, regretting he ever dared Malfoy to have sex with him. He misses Malfoy, he even misses his stupid smug face. Which is worrying and complicated and makes Harry hate the way his chest hurts when he thinks about how badly he fucked up. 

Eventually, Harry ends up thinking about what Hermione said about Malfoy being good for him. And then proceeds to wish Hermione had never mentioned it at all. Because if Harry had become aware of Malfoy caring about him in some twisted way, he hadn’t noticed the smaller things. Harry thinks about the last time he thought of magic, of how it made him feel. The last time was probably when Malfoy made him steal a painting. And even then, Harry wasn’t thinking about why he’d stopped performing magic for nearly a year. He was thinking about magic being everywhere, in everyone, even in Muggles. 

But now Harry has the time to think about it. To scrutinise each and every one of Malfoy’s actions. The results are more frightening than Harry imagined. Because once Harry sits down and thinks about all the dares, really thinks about them, he realises Malfoy was slowly manipulating him into using more magic. And Harry doesn’t know how he missed it. He was too caught up with trying to beat Malfoy, too distracted to even think about the things he was starting to do again, the old habits he was picking up. Somewhere along the way, Malfoy managed to keep Harry distracted for long enough that he stopped remembering all the things that made him fear his own magic. 

There’s a part of Harry that wants to revert to not using magic, out of stubbornness, because he suddenly remembers clearly why he couldn’t do magic. Why he had to run away. But the greater part of him, the reckless part that has been facing things greater than himself since he was eleven, that part wants to acknowledge the change. 

Eventually, Harry pays a visit to the war memorial. He buys flowers and sits in front of it for hours, thinking. He wonders, first, if all those names blame him for what happened. But the longer he stays, the more people start recognising him. Harry has never liked being famous. He would rather have grown up a regular kid, with regular parents and brothers and sisters. But for once, Harry doesn’t feel guilty or annoyed that people recognise him. Because the first witch who comes up to him that day is holding the hand of a small child. She tells him her husband is up there, too. And yet she thanks Harry, because their son will live in a better world. 

Most people just shake his hand. Some talk to him, sit for a moment to tell him a story. But no one blames _him_. No one goes up to him to say they wished he’d done better. 

An old wizard comes up to Harry right when he’s about to leave. He thanks Harry, and Harry, because he has to ask someone, because a horrible, dark part of him has to know, asks the wizard whether he blames him for any or all of the names on that stone. 

The wizard gives him a quizzical look. “I always thought you were too young,” he says. “When terrible times come, it takes brave people to face them. And for each of those names up there, there’s someone glad that in the darkest of our times, you were brave enough to face them.”

He leaves, patting Harry on the back. Harry listens to his coughs distancing, eyes still glued to the stone. He thinks about what the old wizard said, about what Malfoy’s done, about how his friends have always stuck with him. 

So Harry vows in silence to be better. To work harder. To honor the memory of those names by doing his very best. 

 

Harry has a dream that night that he hasn’t had in a while. He’s climbing the same old ladder, his legs already tired. He’s breathless and the ladder seems so long, so steep, that Harry trips over a step, swings sideways. He almost falls down, he starts to get that feeling of vertigo in the pit of his stomach. But something pushes him back on track. It makes Harry climb harder, faster. 

For the first time, Harry reaches the top. 

He wakes up.

 

_Three years later_

 

They’re having Sunday breakfast at the Burrow when their letters arrive. The envelopes have the Ministry seal, and Harry and Ron rush to tear them open. Harry reads his in silence, heart drumming until he gets to the words that interest him the most. Then he looks up at Ron. Ron is staring back at him, a grin on his face.

“We passed,” they say at the same time. 

Which is when Hermione rips the parchments from both their hands. She takes a second to read them before exclaiming, “I am so proud of the both of you!”

Then Mrs Weasley comes in, asking what all the celebratory noise is about. 

Ron answers, “Mum, you have an Auror son, officially.”

Mrs Weasley shrieks and jumps in her place before she collects herself enough to hug her own son and Harry. “What do you boys want for breakfast? Anything, anything, we’re celebrating. Arthur, come here!”

Ron starts making a list of his personal favourites, and Harry is so caught up in his own disbelief and excitement that he can only nod while Ron recites. 

 

The ceremony takes less time than anyone expects. When Harry gets his diploma, he remembers how he’d studied for two weeks straight and memorised —to the best of his abilities— Hermione’s flashcards. How he’d practiced with Ron for hours on end. His palms were sweating and he felt jittery, full of raw energy that had to be used now, now, now. 

He remembers how relieved he’d been once his name was called. All so worth it for this moment, because this is something he wants, this is something he can be proud of. He shakes Kingsley’s hand when he receives his diploma, stands still, smiling, for a photo for the _Prophet_.

 

The article comes out two days after on the front page. Harry rolls his eyes at Rita Skeeter’s title, _The Boy Who Lived: Graduation_. But he still reads through the article, which is not as bad as it could’ve been. At least he’s no longer the helpless orphan with the solitary tear rolling down his cheek that he was painted to be in fourth year. He hasn’t read the _Prophet_ in a while, too busy with his studies to pay attention to it. He has enough friends in the Ministry to keep him updated. But the morning the article comes out, Harry decides he might as well flip through the whole thing. He’s even thinking of renewing his subscription, getting back into the habit now that he’ll have more free time. That’s when he sees it. 

_Malfoy: Bachelor No More_

The bottom of Harry’s stomach drops. He hasn’t even seen Malfoy in all these years. Then Harry reads past the headline, finds that Astoria Greengrass will be wearing the newest fashion in wedding dresses. The bride, the article reads, is very excited for the wedding. The bride. 

Bloody hell. 

“Harry,” Ron says. “Mate, you okay?”

Harry shakes his head and passes him the article on Malfoy. 

“Merlin’s beard,” is all Ron can say. 

“He’s gay!” Harry exclaims, a little more hysterical than he intends. 

 

Harry thinks about Malfoy’s wedding for a long, long time. In the end, he decides that he owes it to whatever they had to stop Malfoy from making a mistake. He writes him a letter that doesn’t get a reply, then a second one and a third one. 

In the end, Harry ends up showing up at Malfoy’s wedding. 

 

Harry really doesn’t mean to make things more dramatic than they already are. He tries to find Malfoy before the ceremony; going out of his way to bribe people into letting him into places he has no business going to. He still doesn’t find Malfoy. Not until he sneaks into the main hall where the ceremony is taking place. 

And then there he is, Malfoy dressed in black, back straight, eyes looking almost dead. That really is all it takes for Harry to make up his mind. 

Later, Harry will remember the entire episode in a blur of faces and colours. 

He won’t remember how he ends up all the way at the front, but he does. 

All Harry will remember is the minister reciting, perfunctorily, if anyone knows of any reason why Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy should not be joined in holy matrimony. Harry will remember standing up, speaking up. 

He will remember throwing the Snitch at Malfoy, watching Malfoy catch it as he says, “I dare you not to marry.”

But what Harry really means is, _I dare you to be brave_.

Malfoy stares at him, eyes wide. He looks sickly, too pale. Maybe that’s why he excuses himself, walks fast down the aisle, throws open the door and disappears before anyone can register what’s going on. 

Harry follows him.

——————————

The first thing Harry saw was Malfoy’s reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth trembled, his knuckles were as white as the ceramic he gripped. Malfoy’s shoulders were shaking. There was something horribly broken about the way Malfoy braced himself over the sink.

Harry hesitated before taking a step forward. Malfoy heard him, turned around, wand in his hand. Harry’s heart drummed against his chest. He felt Malfoy’s desperation seeping through and into his own skin. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy spat. 

He was holding his wand but his entire body was shaking. Harry thought a simple breeze could swoop Malfoy up and away. Harry wanted to reach out, get him to stop shaking. But Harry couldn’t find the words and for each step forward he took, Malfoy took a step back. 

A part of Harry was aware that he didn’t know what Malfoy was thinking. But the other part of him, the part that had stalked Malfoy all year long, was convinced this had to do with Voldemort. Was convinced this had to do with second thoughts. So Harry took another step forward. Then another and another until Malfoy was cornered up against the cold tiles. 

Harry didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t sure he was even right about Malfoy wanting a way out of this mess. So he took the Snitch from his pocket, laid it on the sink. 

“I dare you to be brave,” Harry said, eyes never leaving Malfoy’s. 

He watched as Malfoy inhaled, once, twice, a hitched sound that made Harry’s heart drum louder. 

Then Malfoy raised his wand to Harry’s chest, pushed against him until Malfoy was able to step away from the wall, expression wild. 

He raised his wand to curse Harry. 

The rest was history.

——————————

Harry follows Malfoy outside and into the woods. Harry keeps calling Malfoy’s name, but Malfoy doesn’t turn around until they reach a clearing. 

Malfoy’s breathing is heavy. “I dare you to go the fuck away,” he says, throwing back the Snitch. 

Harry catches it. “No,” he replies, forcing himself to breathe.

Malfoy stares at him like he can’t quite believe Harry. He sneers, “What the fuck do you care, Potter? Just go.”

“I,” Harry starts. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s missed Malfoy. He thinks Malfoy is better than this makeshift wedding. He cares about Malfoy’s happiness, even after all these years. So Harry says, “I care about you, okay?”

That, apparently, is the last stroke for Malfoy. He exhales a long, desperate breath before flopping to the grass. Running a hand over his face, Malfoy says, so low that Harry thinks he might be speaking to himself, “Oh, fuck no.” Then, louder, “Just. Piss off Potter.”

“No,” Harry says again. “You’re better than this.”

“You don’t know me,” Malfoy shoots back. 

“I know you helped me out when I needed someone,” Harry confesses. “And I’ve been wanting to say that to you for a while. I’ve been wanting to thank you. And I still care about you. It’s been years, Malfoy, but I still fucking care, do you know how ridiculous that is?” Harry doesn’t wait for Malfoy to reply. “So I want to repay that favour.”

“I see,” Malfoy says next, standing back up. “You feel fucking _indebted_.” 

“Fuck you, Draco,” Harry replies. “I care. That’s why I’m here.”

“Really, _Potter_?” Malfoy spits out. “Is that why you dared me to shag you? Because you cared?”

“I have tried apologising for that.”

“Maybe apologies aren’t enough.”

“Then what is enough? I’m here. I think you’re better than this fake wedding. I know you’re better than this.” Harry pauses, takes a deep breath. He moves a couple of steps closer to Malfoy, is glad when Malfoy doesn’t step back. “I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t realise I was hurting your feelings.”

“My feelings?” Malfoy asks, chewing on his cheek. “You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh, just drop it, Malfoy—”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to ‘just drop’?” Malfoy cuts him off. He’s staring at Harry, a wild expression in his eyes. He cheeks are flushed, the line of his shoulders tense. Then, “I was fucking in love with you.”

Harry gulps. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Malfoy demands.

“I want you to be brave, Draco,” Harry answers. “I want you to have a life where you can be yourself because I care. And I…” Harry stops himself, unsure of whether he should say what he actually wants, what he’s been wanting for a while. Then he looks at Draco and remembers how good it felt to be around him, even when he was annoyed, how Draco helped him. “I’d like for us to have a second chance,” Harry finishes, eyes drifting to the woods. 

“It’s been three years,” Draco says. 

“I know.”

“Why do you still care?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly. He moves closer still to Draco. So close he just has to reach out to take Draco’s hands in his. “Someone told me once that you were worth fighting for.”

“Really?” Draco asks, skeptically. He’s about to open his mouth, but Harry beats him to it. 

“Yes. Because the way you make me feel, that’s worth saving.”

“Potter,” Draco starts, staring down at their hands. 

Harry doesn’t know what Draco would have said next because when Harry presses their foreheads together, all words seem to escape them. They’re so close, Harry could go cross-eyed. But he isn’t thinking about that. 

He’s thinking about the spark in Draco’s eyes. 

Harry says, “I think you’re very brave.”

He closes his eyes and presses his lips to Draco’s. Harry has to wait a painful second before Draco reacts. And then they’re kissing like they did on New Year’s. Except this time Harry knows exactly what it means.

——————————

Harry was watching the Slytherin Quidditch team obliterate Hufflepuff under rather dubious tactics, when he saw the Snitch up in the air through his binoculars. Malfoy spotted it before the Hufflepuff Seeker. He raced towards it, had the advantage of a better broom. He got to it first and confirmed Slytherin’s victory. No one in Harry’s row was happy over the outcome, himself included. But he watched Malfoy waving his arms at the crowd, Snitch in hand, and it gave him an idea. 

After all, Neville’s Remembrall had to be replaced, somehow. 

Snitches, like all magical objects, tended to have a temperament of their own. New Snitches were particularly bad. You could tell because they were more erratic and tried to escape the Seeker’s hand just a mere few seconds after being caught. Madam Hooch was in charge of breaking them in. Each year, Hogwarts got a new batch consisting of five, perfectly golden and scratchless Snitches. 

Finding where Madam Hooch kept the new Snitches wasn’t the hard part; stealing a brand new one that would barely behave was. But Harry found the right time and place. He found a way, with the much-appreciated help of Mr Padfoot, Mr Prongs, Mr Moony and Mr Wormtail, of sneaking into Madam Hooch’s office under his Invisibility Cloak and stealing one precious Snitch without causing a racket. He hid it in one of his socks, tied a tight knot around it so it wouldn’t escape. Then Harry did some research.

He would’ve asked Hermione, but then she would’ve asked why Harry wanted to figure out a spell to make magical inscriptions. She would never approve of her talents being used to serve Harry’s dare game. 

In the end, though, Harry figured it out on his own. The spell wasn’t complicated, thank goodness. It just required the cooperation of all the parties involved, which meant it was time for Harry to come clean to Malfoy about losing the Remembrall. 

After being yelled at, cursed at and even threatened, Harry managed to get through Malfoy’s stupidly blond head. He managed to talk for long enough to explain that in order for the inscription to show just to the two of them, they both had to take part in a simple spell. Yes, it required a pinch of blood. Yes, Malfoy was slightly scandalised at the thought. But Harry was smart. He took advantage of Malfoy’s momentary confusion, pricked his finger with a small needle he’d brought and then spread a single drop of blood onto the parchment where he’d written the inscription. He did the same to his own finger, smeared his blood across the words. 

The spell was simple. Harry waved his wand, recited the words. Then, he took the Snitch in his palm. It’s wings spread, but it didn’t fly away. Instead, on its side, the following inscription could be read:

_Are you game?_

**Author's Note:**

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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just a Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385631) by [JosephineStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosephineStone/pseuds/JosephineStone)




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